Constantly
by AllisonWonderland203
Summary: Mycroft knows very early on that his younger brother is something special. He also knows that it's his job to look after him, however he can. A closer look at the lives of the Holmes brothers.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock – the characters or the image used as a cover. Everything belongs to the BBC.**

"_I worry about him. Constantly." – Mycroft Holmes, "A Study in Pink."_

...

Mycroft knows very early on that his baby brother is something special.

He hears his parents talking about it, Mummy's voice quiet and sad as it drifts in from the kitchen to the living room where he and Sherlock sit on the floor playing with Sherlock's blocks. The blocks are his little brother's favorite – he likes to match the pieces together in odd ways until they fit just right, stacking them up high before knocking them all down.

"_I don't know what else to do! I'm so tired. It wasn't like this before. Mycroft was such a good baby. He never gave me any trouble and still doesn't. Sherlock's just… He's been a handful right from the start – colicky and crying all the time – and it's only gotten worse. I just thought it would be easier than this…"_

Mycroft knows Mummy doesn't understand Sherlock. Their father doesn't either. They can't make sense of Sherlock's frequent moods and tantrums and silences, or why he likes to watch the same film over and over and over, or why he doesn't like to talk and play with the other children at playgroup. They worry about him all the time and sometimes they fight over him too – their father's voice growing loud and gruff and shouty, the way it is now.

"_Don't you get it? It's never going to be easy. You don't want to admit it, but there's something that's just not right about him. I'm sorry, love, but there is. He's not like Mycroft. He won't ever be like Mycroft. He'll never be normal."_

Normal. What does normal mean, anyway? It doesn't matter to Mycroft whether or not Sherlock is normal. Sherlock is Sherlock and he's perfect just the way he is. The two of them get along just fine and in the end, that is what _really_ matters.

Mycroft knows Sherlock tries to be a good boy, but he's in trouble so often. It's not uncommon for him to return from school to find Sherlock standing in the corner or sent to his room for a time out. He doesn't mean to be naughty; it's just that he's so curious.

On the days Sherlock is in trouble the most, Mycroft goes out of his way to be extra good for his parents. He wants to make them happy, and perhaps if he stays quiet and does as he's told, they won't be so frustrated when it comes to Sherlock's antics.

Mycroft just wants things to be okay, to be happy, like they were before. _Before Sherlock,_ he thinks, but immediately regrets it. He loves Sherlock, even if he is a little different. He would never wish that Sherlock weren't here, not consciously. Even though things have been difficult, there have been happy times too, with Sherlock.

He remembers before Sherlock was born, his mother would take his hand and press it to her big belly to feel the little kicks inside. "_Do you feel it, love? That's your brother," _she'd say._ "That's baby Sherlock."_ He remembers the days when Sherlock was just a little baby, all red and wrinkly and smelly. All he did was sleep and cry and Mycroft thought he was both the most fascinating and yet annoying thing he'd ever seen.

He remembers going to the park with his parents and baby Sherlock in his pram. His parents would watch him play while they sat on a blanket under a tree, little Sherlock lying before them, staring up at the wide expanse of green against blue. As Sherlock got older, their parents would no longer sit, but watch him carefully as he went down the slide, would push them on the swings. Mycroft remembers other times, Christmases and birthdays and happy times. Whatever happened to those times, when the four of them were enough, when all was right with the world?

Mycroft wonders just when things changed for his mother, his father, for everyone.

He wonders if it will ever change for him.

...

Sherlock has a difficult time at school. It's not that he's a bad student – in fact, he's probably one of the brightest, if not _the_ brightest pupil the school's ever seen. The problem is that Sherlock doesn't get along well with others. At least twice a week, Sherlock comes home with a note from his teacher or the headmaster describing how Sherlock's behavior was inappropriate.

_Displays poor listening skills._

_Refuses to play with others._

_Started a fight at recess._

When notes start arriving every day, their parents are called in for a conference. Mycroft and Sherlock sit in the hall while Sherlock's teacher and headmaster explain the situation.

"_We just want to help. We understand that Sherlock is a special child, but we cannot allow this type of disruptive behavior to continue."_

Despite what the teachers and their parents believe, Mycroft knows it's not all Sherlock's fault. The other children don't understand him and tease him mercilessly. He knows because he saw it happen.

Every day when school let out, the two of them would meet in front of Sherlock's school to walk home together. One afternoon about a week ago, Sherlock wasn't there to meet him when he came to collect him after school. Immediately, Mycroft had known something was wrong. Sherlock didn't just forget to show up. He was always there, waiting to tell him all about his day and what he'd learned. Something just wasn't right.

With a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, Mycroft had walked to the elementary schoolyard to see what was keeping his brother. What he saw there was permanently burned into his memory. A group of older boys, several grades ahead of Sherlock, had formed a circle around him and were shoving him back and forth, calling him names and pushing him about. Sherlock was caught between them and couldn't get away from their rough hands.

"_Little freak!"_

"_You're so stupid! Stupid Sherlock!"_

"_Freak!"_

It took mere seconds for Mycroft to act. Without thinking, he barreled in to the group of boys, knocking at least one to the ground in his haste to come to his brother's aid. He took Sherlock by the arm and pulled him behind him, placing himself between Sherlock and his tormentors.

"_Don't you ever, ever touch him again! You hear me?"_

The boys looked up at Mycroft and the anger all over his face and nodded shakily. Mycroft didn't waste another moment on them as he turned swiftly, taking Sherlock by the hand and walking away, leaving the boys to gape after them. Sherlock's little legs struggled to keep up with big brother's strides, but Mycroft didn't slow down, needing to get Sherlock as far away from them as possible. Some part of him recognized that he might possibly have just made the situation worse, that Sherlock's needing to be rescued might make his peers tease him all the more, but Mycroft didn't care. All that mattered was that Sherlock was safe now.

He led him by the hand until they were further down the block. Only then did he stop to make sure Sherlock is all right. He stooped before his brother and looked him over, checking for cuts and bruises. He appeared unharmed except for some dirt smeared across his face. Mycroft had reached up to brush it away when he noticed the tears in Sherlock's big blue eyes.

"_Hey… Hey, what's wrong, big guy?"_

A sniffle. A shrug.

"_Come on, now. I was there. I saw what happened. Talk to me. What's going on in that head of yours?"_

Another sniffle. "_Do you… Do you think they're right, Mycroft?"_

"_Who?"_

"_The kids. At school. "_

"_Do I think they're right about what?"_

"_That I… That I'm a freak. I'm not a freak, am I, Mycroft?"_

Mycroft grasped his shoulders then, looking Sherlock right in the eye. "_No. Never. They're the ones who are stupid, Sherlock. Not you. Never you."_

As Mycroft listens to Mummy and Father argue with the teachers, he remembers that afternoon, Sherlock's terror and his tears, and he knows that none of the adults understand. Sherlock must know it too, because he slips his hand into Mycroft's and squeezes. Mycroft squeezes back.

He understands. And perhaps that's enough for now.

...

When Sherlock is in third grade, he begins playing the violin. Their parents decide that perhaps his obsessive and unique energy might be put to better use through a hobby, like a musical instrument, so they sign him up for lessons at school. Their mother says she read something about how music was supposed to be helpful for children like Sherlock, children who just had a bit too much going on in their brain and needed a creative outlet for it. Their father isn't pleased when confronted with the idea of Sherlock making a god-awful racket all the time, practicing a bloody tuba or god-knows-what at all hours of the day, but somehow Mummy manages to circumvent his aversion to brass instruments and settle both their father and Sherlock on the compromise of a violin.

The first time he brings the instrument home, Mycroft is the only one there to meet him, waiting for him in the kitchen with a glass of milk and a plate of store-bought chocolate chip cookies – the only thing that Sherlock will willingly eat. He's in the middle of drafting his political science paper when Sherlock bursts through the door with a crash, shouting his name and running into the kitchen like a hurricane.

Mycroft watches as Sherlock clambers up on a kitchen chair and opens the violin case, proudly displaying the polished wooden instrument. His brother touches the strings reverently, plucking them one at a time so the notes resound throughout the quiet kitchen. Sherlock says he's going to be the world's best violin player.

"_Do you think I can, Mycroft? Do you?"_

Mycroft tells him it's going to take a lot of practice to be the world's best, but yes, if he wants it hard enough, he can do whatever he wants. Sherlock beams under his brother's praise and asks if he can play something for him. Mycroft nods and the room suddenly fills with a simple version of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

Mycroft smiles at the progress he's made even in a few short days. This is the first real thing that Sherlock has ever been passionate about and Mycroft is glad to see his little brother so happy. He's such a quiet boy, but full of peculiarities. Perhaps the music will help him.

All Mycroft wants is for him to be happy.

...

**A/N: This is my first fic for the Sherlock fandom. Reviews and comments are greatly appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock – the characters or the image used as a cover. Everything belongs to the BBC.**

* * *

Mycroft is eighteen when he leaves for university. Sherlock is inconsolable for weeks beforehand, begging him not to go. He clings to his side much more than normal and wants to do everything with him, afraid to be left alone. He says that Mycroft can't leave, because if he does, he'll be all alone. Mycroft reminds him that he'll still have Mummy and Father, but they both know that isn't quite true. Their father has become more and more distant over the years, spending more time with his work at the office during the day and more time with his bottle of scotch in his study in the evening. Their mother, bless her, still tries her best, but they know she is tired of it all, despite the brave, stoic face she puts on each morning.

Still, Mycroft tries to be positive for his brother's sake, but it doesn't help; things continue to get worse. Ever since he learned that Mycroft was going away, Sherlock's moods have been more frequent and he's become a general terror. He refuses to eat and there are days when Mycroft has to literally drag him out of bed just to get him to go outside and play. He's so pale and withdrawn and stubbornly insistent on wearing the same heavy sweatshirt every day, even in the hottest days of summer. Mycroft worries about him, but he chalks it up to nothing more than an exaggerated sulk.

On the day he actually leaves, Sherlock stands on the sidewalk, bravely trying not to cry as Mycroft crouches before him, promising he'll be back to visit soon if Sherlock is good and eats his vegetables and practices his violin and goes to school. Mycroft gets an armful of little boy as Sherlock suddenly launches himself at his older brother, throwing his arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. Mycroft eventually plies him away, discreetly kissing him on the head and ruffling his curly hair and telling him to be a good boy, to listen to mother and mind father. Sherlock sniffs and straightens and doesn't say anything at all.

Mycroft gets in the car and waves a final goodbye as he drives away. Sherlock doesn't move, but his large blue eyes stay locked on Mycroft as long as they can, staring off into the distance long after the car has rounded the corner and disappeared.

...

The first time Mycroft comes home, it's Christmastime. He arrives with a bag full of presents for Sherlock and expects to have his ear chatted off, but his little brother is oddly silent. He barely speaks, barely looks up at him. In typical Sherlock fashion, he plays his violin and reads his books and refuses to eat anything but sweets. Mycroft assumes he's being stubborn, that he's punishing Mycroft for having left him behind, and doesn't pay much mind to yet another of Sherlock's frequent tantrums.

It isn't until the last day of his holiday that Sherlock decides to grace him with an agreeable mood. They spend the day playing chess and eating cake and drinking hot chocolate. Their parents go out that night – they've a New Year's party to attend – and the two of them are left to manage on their own. As usual, Sherlock protests vehemently when Mycroft says it's time for a bath and bed, but Mycroft wins the battle – he always does – by promising to read to him about pirates before he goes to sleep. Once Sherlock is out of the bath, Mycroft checks on him to make sure he hasn't suddenly decided to run around naked and catch his death of cold.

He knocks on the door to Sherlock's room and enters just as Sherlock is pulling on his shirt. The boy jumps and yells at his older brother for just barging in, but Mycroft isn't paying attention. He's fixated on the deep purple bruises that cover the boy's torso. Alarmed by their size and color, he asks what happened. Sherlock shrugs, saying he fell one day last week on his way home from school, slipping on the icy sidewalks. Before Mycroft can say anything else, Sherlock grabs his pirate book and hops into bed, demanding that Mycroft start to read.

Mycroft doesn't mention the bruises again until he leaves the next morning. He says his goodbyes to his mother and father and brother, teasingly admonishing Sherlock not to slip on any more sidewalks. When their mother asks him about it, Sherlock turns white as a sheet and mumbles a half-hearted reply. Mycroft smiles gently and explains that it wasn't anything to be worried about and Sherlock is fine now, isn't he? His little brother nods, forcing a smile.

Mycroft thinks his response odd, but then again, so is Sherlock.

...

In the spring of Mycroft's sophomore year, their parents divorce. Mycroft wants to say he's surprised, but he feels like it was inevitable. For years now, they've been unhappy in their marriage. Mycroft wants to say it has nothing to do with Sherlock, but he doesn't quite believe that's true. He knows his brother has been a strain on their family, that their parents have fought about how best to deal with him ever since he was very young. He wonders if it got worse after he left for university, once he wasn't there to help with Sherlock. He wants to believe that that's not true, but he just can't quite accept it.

Surprisingly enough, their mother is the one who ends it. She packs her suitcase and leaves the country, deciding to live with her sister in France for a while. She doesn't even say goodbye; just up and goes, leaving a note and divorce papers on the dining room table. Mycroft is shocked when Sherlock calls him, distraught, crying over the phone, saying that Mummy has gone and she's not coming back. Mycroft doesn't fully believe him at first, and tells him to calm down and tell him what _actually _happened. So Sherlock takes deep breaths until he can speak clearly again and tells Mycroft all the facts – the note, the papers, the lack of Mummy's things, her total absence – and Mycroft believes him.

It's just so unlike their mother… Despite her frustrations with her husband, she had honestly tried her best to love and care for both he and Sherlock. Mycroft knows that it was never easy, that it became decidedly less easy as the years passed and their father began to choose work over his family, leaving her to deal with Sherlock and his moods and eccentricities and troubles all on her own, but she was never a woman to just give up. Something must have happened, he reasons, something drastic that pushed her over the edge, but Mycroft doesn't ask. He doesn't want to upset Sherlock any further. Besides, their parents' relationship was never his business and now, with Mummy's shocking betrayal, he's beyond caring.

When he stops to think about it, Mycroft is more angry and confused than hurt by the whole situation, but Sherlock is understandably devastated. He was never close to either of their parents, but Mycroft knows that he always preferred their mother over their father. That was never a secret. She at least _tried _to understand him. He wonders if perhaps Sherlock and Father will be closer now that they are the only two left in the house, but he doesn't put much faith in the notion. It's best that he doesn't, for as the weeks progress following Mummy's departure, their father's response to the divorce is to remain as married to his work as he ever was, which leaves Sherlock to fend for himself even more than usual. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind their father's absence – in fact, he tells Mycroft he doesn't mind, and actually prefers it – but Mycroft still worries that he's spending too much time alone. Mycroft wishes he could be there with him, but with his busy class schedule and the fact that his university is a two hour train ride from home, there's not much he can do.

Mycroft tries, but he just can't hold everything together. He's not all-powerful.

...

Mycroft graduates from university and gets a job with the government. It's not much, just an entry-level position that will get his foot in the door. Mostly, it consists of long hours and tiring, often tedious work, but he enjoys it. The pay isn't great either, but he earns enough to pay the rent on a tiny flat in a fairly respectable part of London.

Now that he lives closer, he makes an effort to come home on Sundays to see Sherlock. Mycroft knows that Sherlock hates having to live with their father – their mother still ignoring Sherlock's calls and letters that beg her to let him go and live abroad with her – so Mycroft tries even harder to be the one stable constant in his life. Recently, Sherlock has once more started asking if he can come and live with him, now that he's done with university. Despite his sympathy for his brother, Mycroft continues to say no. His schedule and work are too unpredictable and, while Sherlock isn't a child anymore, Mycroft doesn't want the responsibility of dealing with him every moment of every day. He's just beginning to carve out a life for himself and he doesn't need any new distractions. He's given enough time already. Sherlock is nearly an adult and Mycroft can't be expected to continue parenting him forever. At some point, he has to start fending for himself. He's not trying to be cruel, just logical.

Still, Mycroft is disturbed by the fact that every time he goes home, it seems as if Sherlock is more and more distant. He's no longer excited when he stops by the house and he hardly even bothers to come out of his room at all. Rather than come downstairs and be civil, he sits alone in his bedroom doing God knows what while Mycroft makes conversation and shares a glass of scotch with their father. Sherlock usually manages to make an appearance by the time dinner is served, but not always. Sometimes Mycroft will go upstairs to literally drag him down to supper, just like when he was a child. Other times, their father will holler up the stairs and threaten him until he comes down.

One such Sunday, when their father's shouts finally bring Sherlock down the stairs, Mycroft is shocked to realize that he barely recognizes the tall, lanky teenager who takes a seat beside him at the table. Looking at his pale face, his sunken cheeks, and his empty eyes, Mycroft wonders where his little brother went, and when this dark, moody stranger replaced him.

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**Reviews are the best. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: This chapter contains mentions of drug use.**

* * *

When the time comes for Sherlock to go to university, Mycroft makes it his priority to make sure he's settling in all right. He's only been there a week, but by the state of his room, it looks like he's lived there for ages. He's made himself quite at home, as evidenced by the clothes and books and papers scattered across his half of the cramped dormitory room. Mycroft wonders how in God's name any roommate is going to put up with Sherlock's shenanigans, but it's none of his business, really.

Mycroft asks him how he's getting on, how his classes are, how he likes his roommate – all the usual things. Sherlock shrugs, giving non-committal answers, saying his teachers are all frightfully dull and the students are even worse. Apparently, all they care about is partying and shagging and sleeping in. He came to university to _learn _and everyone else just wants to kill their brain cells with as much alcohol as they can possibly hold. Sherlock flops back on his bed and heaves a sigh. He complains that school's barely begun and it's just so _boring._ He doesn't know what he's going to do with himself for the next four years, surrounded by imbeciles and sentimental domestic dramas that he doesn't give a toss about.

Mycroft wryly suggests that perhaps, with all of his free time, he should start a blog in which Sherlock, with his copious knowledge of social systems, can offer his fellow students advice on improving the quality of their pathetic lives. Sherlock glares at him, but seems to contemplate the idea for a whole ten seconds before shrugging his shoulders and beginning to pick at his fingernails. Silence falls over the room and Mycroft taps his umbrella on the floor, the noise resounding on the tile flooring. Though filled with clutter it may be, the room still echoes with a sense of emptiness.

Against his better judgment, Mycroft asks if Father has been by yet to see him. Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes. Mycroft frowns at him.

"_What's that supposed to mean?"_

"_My whole life he's never given a damn about me. Why should he start now that he's finally rid of me?"_

Mycroft shakes his head. He should be surprised by Sherlock's utter apathy, but by this point, hardly anything Sherlock does surprises him anymore. He lets the matter drop, unwilling to start a war between them.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft suggests they make tea. After all, there's very little a good cup of tea can't fix… or at least cover up.

…

On a rainy Saturday in February, Mycroft makes an unplanned trip to the university to collect Sherlock for their mother's birthday. For several years now, Mummy has made an annual trip back to London in order to celebrate her birthday with her boys. It is the one day a year that she asks to see them, one day a year when she remembers that she has two sons who still need her and have never been able to forget the hole she left in their lives. At first, Mycroft was reluctant, with the way she simply disappeared from their lives and the emotionally devastation she left in her wake, but he obliged nonetheless, rationalizing that he could give a few hours a year of sipping tea and making polite conversation to the woman who gave him life. To him, it seemed a fair enough trade. Sherlock, however, has never been so amiable. He has never forgiven their mother for leaving and has always been furious that Mycroft forced him to give in to her ridiculous and unfounded demands.

This year is no different than any other year in terms of dreading the date, but Mycroft no longer , when Sherlock doesn't show up for brunch, Mummy is distraught. She blames Mycroft for not making sure that his brother knew when and where to be. Mycroft considers telling her that Sherlock is no longer under his control – as if he ever was – and now that he is at university, Sherlock is free to do as she pleases. Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with his mother weeping so Mycroft, ever the fixer, offers to fetch him and be back in time for lunch.

He takes a cab – never the tube – to the university and heads straight for Sherlock's dormitory. When Sherlock answers the door, he is neither showered nor dressed. In fact, he looks rather hungover – his face pale and his eyes red and watery. Sherlock grumbles and rubs at his eyes, confused as to why Mycroft is here, now, and why. Mycroft does his best to calmly explain that today was the day of their mother's birthday and Sherlock just yawns. With a barely concealed rage, Mycroft sends him off to shower and make himself presentable. Sherlock pouts, saying he's not a child, and Mycroft points him down the hall, shoving him out of the room with a towel and some soap in hand.

Once again forced to cater to his brother's timetable, Mycroft is looks around the room for a place to sit while he waits. He avoids the rumpled bed, not really caring to think about what might go on there, and opts for the desk chair. Shaking his head, the take the stack of books and papers out of the seat – honestly, how does Sherlock live in this pigsty? – and looks for a place to set them on the already disorderly desk. Unable to find one, he pushes the clutter aside just enough to set the books down, inadvertently knocking a flurry of papers to the floor. With frustrated grunt, Mycroft picks them back up and is about to set them back down when something catches his eye. There, hiding just under a corner of yet another stack of papers, is a shiny silver spoon, bowl dulled slightly in the middle. Mycroft's eyes narrow. He's not stupid. He knows the purpose of a spoon like that. He reaches out and pushes the papers aside, revealing not only the spoon in its entirety, but a small hypodermic needle as well.

Mycroft's heart pounds. He can't quite wrap his brain around this. He knows what he's seeing and can clearly draw the conclusions from the evidence that lies before him, but he doesn't want to believe it. He's still processing his accidental discovery when Sherlock comes back in the room, clad only in a towel. Sherlock immediately begins complaining about him moving his things when Mycroft whips around, brandishing the spoon in a clutched fist, demanding to tell him what the hell this is about.

Sherlock blinks at him, raises his eyebrows, and calmly tells him it's for cooking heroin.

Then, for the first time in years, Mycroft loses his composure.

"_Heroin? My god… What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't you know how foolish this is? Do you want to lose your scholarship? Do you know what this stuff _does_ to you? How stupid can you be, Sherlock?"_

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tells him to stop being so melodramatic, it was just one time with some friends at a party. It's not like he does it all the time. What kind of an idiot does he think he is?

Mycroft inspects his face closely, looking for any signs that his brother is lying to him. In his line of work, he sees all kinds of men who lie for all kinds of reasons and have all sorts of tells, but Sherlock – his little brother Sherlock – has a poker face that might as well belong to the hardest criminal. His expression seems to have been carved out of granite. His eyes don't twitch, his breathing doesn't change, his pupils don't dilate. He looks Mycroft right in the eye and says he isn't using, isn't a drug addict.

Mycroft has to believe he's telling the truth.

…

Time passes faster than Mycroft can fathom. He receives a promotion at work and has an office and an assistant all his own. He spends more and more time at the office, feeling a bit like his father, but he has no family to go home to. Not that he minds. His unorthodox schedule leaves little time for a personal life and he almost prefers it that way. His job is enough for him. He enjoys what he does and, more than that, he is good at it. He's building a name for himself and that is the only legacy he cares about.

However, he does worry about Sherlock. Mycroft barely sees him anymore and when he does, he doesn't look well. His face is tired and worn; he's thinner than ever before and his clothes just hang on him. Mycroft worries. He asks how he is, but Sherlock could care less about making conversation. He simply stares into his tea and shrugs, grunting noncommittally as Mycroft holds a largely one-sided conversation. If he mentions their father, Sherlock just laughs sardonically, wondering why the hell Mycroft would ask _him _about that. As if he'd speak with their father of his own volition. How foolish of Mycroft to even think that he might do such a thing. Mycroft has never been able to understand why Sherlock hates their father so much. Admittedly, the man has never been a saint, but neither has he been a devil. It makes no sense, and Mycroft worries more.

Most of their meetings end in frustration, with unsaid words and worries. Mycroft knows something's not right, he can feel it, but he can't bring himself to ask. Mycroft knows better than to push Sherlock away from him too. Their family is so scattered, so broken, that he is unwilling to lose Sherlock any more than he already has. He feels that as long as he's there for him, whatever is going on in Sherlock's life can't be so bad. At least he has one lifeline to cling to. In the end, he must know that he's there for him… He must.

Still, Mycroft can't help but feel that Sherlock is truly slipping away this time and that fact scares him more than anything else in the world.

…

The unthinkable happens during Sherlock's final year at university.

Mycroft drops by unannounced one day, planning to take him out for dinner – he's still frightfully thin, and Mycroft worries he isn't eating properly. It's been weeks since the two of them have talked – Mycroft has been completely bogged down with work lately and Sherlock has been facing with his final examinations – and all he wants to do is catch up a bit.

A student lets him into the dormitory and Mycroft makes his way up to the third floor. Sherlock has switched rooms since Mycroft last visited – apparently after the fifth roommate demanded to be relocated, the dean had finally permitted him to have a single. It was better that way, Mycroft supposed, for everyone. He approaches the door, the last one on the left-hand side, and notices that it is unlatched. With a gentle knock on the doorjamb, Mycroft pushes it open and steps through. He is totally unprepared for what he sees, but in the mere second it takes for him to realize what is going on, he sees everything.

Sherlock, cross-legged on his bed, a rubber cord tied 'round his left bicep.

Sherlock's pale arm extended to expose the veins in the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock's fingers curled into a determined fist.

Sherlock's steady right hand holding a hypodermic needle filled with some unknown substance.

Sherlock's steely blue eyes unwavering in concentration.

Mycroft lets out a noise of surprise and for the first time, Sherlock realizes he's no longer alone. His eyes widen, but he carefully sets down the needle before rising to explain himself. Mycroft doesn't give him a chance. He promptly turns and walks out the door. He's livid, both at himself and his brother. Sherlock lied to him, was lying to him, _is _lying to him and he fell for it. He let himself believe what he wanted to believe and ignore what he didn't wish to see. He's as much to blame for this as Sherlock is. He should have paid more attention, checked up on him more, made sure he was clean.

But Sherlock _lied._ That wasn't his fault. That was on Sherlock. _He_ made the decision to keep using. _He_ made the decision to lie. _He _was the one who was hell-bent on ruining his life.

With those thoughts, Mycroft keeps walking, down the hall and down the stairs, refusing to turn back even as Sherlock follows him, calls his name. He storms out of the dormitory and doesn't stop until he's off the university grounds, until he's on the street, until he's safely seated in a cab, whizzing through the bustling streets of London. Only then does he realize what he's seen, what he's done. He thinks shouldn't have left. Shouldn't have turned his back. He was just so _angry. _

Mycroft scrubs his hands over his face and sighs. He takes several deep breaths and calms himself down, telling himself that it wasn't his fault. That he needs time to cool down. That Sherlock is capable of making his own choices.

And so is he.

…

That night, Mycroft comes home to a message on his answerphone. It's Sherlock, apologizing for what happened. He says he's sorry and yes, he's been using, but he's been being careful. He's only doing it to help him manage the stress of his exams. He says he understands if he doesn't want to talk to him, but he just wanted him to understand.

Mycroft doesn't understand, but he's surer than ever that he never understood Sherlock at all.

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**A/N: As always, reviews are appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
**

...

When their father dies, Mycroft is crushed. He wasn't particularly close to their father, but the man was always there for him, always proud of the man he'd become. He passes away suddenly – septic shock due to liver failure, the doctors say, brought on by years of drinking. Mycroft is shocked, to say the least. He'd always been aware of his father's drinking habits, but he'd never stopped to consider how excessive his imbibing had become. He blames himself, thinking he should have paid more attention, should have realized just how alone their father was once Mummy left and he and Sherlock had gone. He wishes he could have been there for him. He might have been able to prevent this.

But if there's one thing Mycroft knows, it's that wishing does not achieve anything. So, like the responsible man he has come to be, he places his feelings aside and puts on a stoic face, carrying on in the midst of his grief.

The first person he calls is Mummy. He reasons that, even after everything, she deserves to know that her ex-husband is dead. She takes the news quietly and calmly, saying she's not surprised, that she knew something like this would happen sooner or later. She asks if he is all right and Mycroft assures her that he's fine. He doesn't really want to talk about it and, truthfully, Mycroft doesn't quite know how to respond to her sudden surge of maternal concern. He's learned to live without it and doesn't see why he should seek out her affection now. He'll manage just as he's always done.

The next call he makes is to Sherlock. He thinks it would probably be best if he is the one to tell him the news. Even if they haven't spoken in far too long, Mycroft reasons that Sherlock will still listen to what he has to say. At least, he hopes so.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft dials the phone and waits, listens as it rings, and breathes a soft sigh of relief when Sherlock actually answers. It's no surprise to him that Sherlock remains removed from the conversation. All he wants are the cold hard facts, asking how and when and where. Mycroft answers as best he can, but he doesn't want to talk about it, especially not in the detached, emotionless way that Sherlock is going about this.

"_The man was our father, for God's sake! Doesn't that mean anything to you?!_"

Mycroft quickly regrets his harsh tone, apologizing instantly. Sherlock doesn't say a word, and Mycroft wonders what's going on in that head of his. He apologizes again and says he'll call him later in the week once he knows when and where the funeral will be. Sherlock hums in acknowledgement. The conversation ends awkwardly, with hesitant goodbyes and unspoken assurances.

…

On the day of the service, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Mycroft checks his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Though Sherlock was not involved in the planning of the funeral, Mycroft made sure to let him know when and where it was being held. He'd never spoken to Sherlock directly, but left several messages on his answerphone. He assumed his brother would get the messages, but he must have assumed wrong.

Stepping to the back of the room, Mycroft dials Sherlock's number once more. Nothing. He's called at least a dozen times in the past hour, but all of them have been directed to a voice mail box. He cannot imagine where his brother is and isn't quite sure he wants to. Ever since that fateful afternoon Mycroft caught him using, things haven't been the same between the two of them. Mycroft had found himself growing more and more suspicious of his brother as Sherlock grew more and more secretive.

The last time he had seen Sherlock was just after his graduation from university. Apparently, he had been doing well, having taken up a job doing lab analysis for Scotland Yard at St. Barts, putting his minors in biology and chemistry to good use, and moved into a flat with a mate from uni. Yet as well as he'd _said_ he was, Mycroft wasn't sure that was the truth. The facts of Sherlock's story didn't seem to quite add up – his brother? Working for law enforcement? Even in a minor way? And at a hospital? Solving medical puzzles using techniques a child could master? It didn't seem right. Any of it. That, plus his outward appearance made Mycroft skeptical. Sherlock looked simply awful, worse than Mycroft had ever seen him. Frustrated, he'd had asked if he was using again, but the question was superfluous. The answer was already clear in his sunken, red eyes, and his clammy, twitching fingers.

That was almost a year and a half ago. The next time they spoke was when Mycroft called to tell him of their father's death. So it's no surprise that Sherlock is refusing to answer his phone now.

Yet just minutes before the service is about to begin, Mycroft's phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. It's Sherlock. Mycroft ducks out into the lobby of the funeral home, hissing into the phone.

"_Where are you? You need to be here! This is our father's funeral. Sherlock Holmes, you need to be here!"_

Sherlock, on the other side of the phone, sounds hazy and disconnected. "_I'm busy_."

Mycroft is livid. "_Busy?! Too busy to come to your own father's funeral?!"_

Sherlock sighs. "_Sorry, brother, but I can't. I just can't. You wouldn't understand."_

"_What? What wouldn't I understand? Tell me. Tell me, Sherlock. Make me understand."_

A silence, then, "_I can't. You never listen."_

He hangs up the phone with a sharp click and leaves Mycroft stunned. At that moment, Mycroft realizes just how little Sherlock cares for their father, for him. He knows Sherlock was never fond of their father, but this… this is a step too far. He is infuriated and hurt, but he has a funeral to attend, so he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and carries on.

…

He doesn't hear from Sherlock, but he worries about him constantly. Mycroft doesn't know if he's still got that flat or that mate from university. He doesn't know if he still has that job with Scotland Yard. He doesn't know if he's seeing anyone – has a girlfriend. Boyfriend. He doesn't know if he's getting enough to eat or if he's sleeping properly. If he's happy or if he's safe. If he's clean. If he's using. If he's shooting up high enough to quiet his strange and brilliant mind. If he's poisoning his body little by little, day by day, getting one step closer to death each time he sticks that needle in his arm.

He doesn't know. He just doesn't know.

Mycroft worries, but it's futile to worry about everything all the time. Especially the things that are out of his control.

…

A few months later, Mycroft is awakened in the night by the ring of the telephone. With a glance at the clock and a heavy sigh, he picks up, mumbling a hello. It's Sherlock. He's loud and incoherent and it takes Mycroft all of two seconds to realize that Sherlock is under the influence. He doesn't have time for this. He has to be up in three hours to catch a flight to Switzerland. He hasn't heard from Sherlock since their father's funeral nearly a year ago and he doesn't want to talk to him now, of all times.

"_Mycroft… Mycroft, please… Please. Please come get me."_

Sherlock's voice is high and tight and he sounds absolutely unearthly, but Mycroft doesn't care. He's tired and frustrated and angry still, so angry.

"_Please, Mycroft… please. I'm in trouble. I messed up… Mycroft. I did something bad… I need help."_

Mycroft sighs. He doesn't want to play this game, doesn't want to buy into this, doesn't want to be a pawn in Sherlock's games anymore. So he strikes with the intent to wound.

"_I'm busy," _Mycroft says, his voice sharp as ice.

Sherlock wails and begins babbling into the telephone, saying he's sorry, he's sorry, he's so sorry but he needs someone right now, someone to come get him. Mycroft isn't listening. He's still angry and wants to hurt Sherlock the way he hurt him. He knows it's petty, but he can't help the words that come out of his mouth.

"_Sherlock, no. I can't. I just can't. I'm busy. I'm sure you understand."_

There is a silence, presumably as Sherlock realizes what he's doing. Good. Serves him right. Mycroft waits, but he can't hear anything. He's about to hang up when all of a sudden Sherlock is talking again, saying things, horrible things. Things about their father, how he used to drink and get angry and beat him. How their mother never knew. How it got worse when Mycroft went to school because there was no one to protect him. How he never said anything because Father always said that Mycroft would be upset with him, wouldn't believe him, would say that he must have deserved it because he was always such a naughty and odd little boy. How it got worse as he got older, as their father drank more and more and more. How Father just got so angry and how he wasn't afraid to use his fists and belt and bottles to show it. How he was finally big enough to fight back, but he was never able to overpower their father's rage. How he thought it was over when he escaped to university, but he nightmares kept coming. How he couldn't go to the funeral because their father used to beat him and he hates him hates him hates him hates him hates him. How he hates him and he's sorry. He's sorry he couldn't be at the funeral with him, sorry he made Mycroft stand there all alone, but he couldn't, he just couldn't. How he's so sorry but please… please, he's in trouble… please, he needs him now… needs his help… needs his brother.

"_Please… Please, Mycroft, please… Mycroft? Mycroft?"_

Mycroft can't say a word. He's stunned. This has to be a story, has to be a lie concocted by the drugs Sherlock has so obviously taken. He knows their father wasn't fond of Sherlock, but he'd never blamed him. Their father was a distant man and Sherlock isn't an easy person to be close to. No one knew that better than Mycroft. But despite any sort of estrangement between them, Mycroft had never even imagined the possibility that his father's aversion to Sherlock could have run so deep as to cause him to lay hands on his youngest son.

But it can't be true… it just can't. If any of what Sherlock says is the truth, then it's Mycroft's fault – his fault because he never protected Sherlock, his fault because he never saw the signs, his fault because he's been too damned _busy _to realize his brother was in pain.

No. It isn't true. It _isn't._ It's a trick. A cruel trick. Just another Sherlock trick to get him to do what he wants. It has to be a trick.

Mycroft sighs and tells Sherlock he's sorry, but he can't come. He tells him that whatever he's taken is making him say things that aren't true and he just needs to drink a glass of water and go to bed. He won't remember having said any of this in the morning.

Nearing hysteria, Sherlock begins a fresh round of apologies and swears he's not making it up, that he's telling the truth, the honest-to-a-God-he-doesn't-believe-in truth. Mycroft calmly tells him he's going to hang up now. Sherlock screams, begging him not to go, but Mycroft pulls the phone away from his ear and ends the call.

Mycroft lies back down. He doesn't sleep the rest of the night, Sherlock's screams and sobs echoing in the corridors of his mind. He wonders if he made the right decision, but worries that he's just made a grave mistake he will live to regret.

…


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

* * *

The phone rings again just before Mycroft's alarm is set to go off. He's almost afraid to answer it. Sherlock's voice is both the first and the last thing he wants to hear right now. He wants to know he's okay, that something awful hasn't happened to him, but he doesn't know if he can face the reality of the guilt that threatens to swallow him whole.

Finally, on the fourth ring, he leans over and picks up the phone. It's not Sherlock. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"_Good morning. Er… Is this Mr. Mycroft Holmes? Yes. Hello. My name is Greg Lestrade. I'm a detective with Scotland Yard… Yes. I'm calling to inform you that we picked up your brother last night. We found him downtown, strung out of his mind, shouting at pedestrians. We took him back to the station, thought we'd let him settle down 'til morning, but… 'Bout an hour ago or so he passed out in the cell. He didn't look good. We sent him over to St. Barts... I think you should head over there as soon as you can… Mr. Holmes? …Mr. Holmes? Hello…?"_

Mycroft cancels his trip to Switzerland.

...

When he arrives at the hospital, Mycroft thinks he is prepared for the worst.

He's not.

The sight of Sherlock hooked up to all those tubes and wires and monitors is more crippling than he anticipated. He looks so pale and lifeless laying there, his dark curls so stark against the white hospital sheets.

In his mind's eye, Mycroft sees Sherlock, age 12, hospitalized because he'd tripped over the fraying carpet and fallen down the stairs, fracturing his wrist. It had been a bad break and the trip to the hospital a nightmare. Though he hadn't been home when it happened, Mycroft was the one who accompanied him to A & E. It was just after their parents' divorce and neither Father nor Mummy had been available to take him. Sherlock had been terrified of the doctors, of the needles, of the pain, of never being able to play the violin again. They'd ended up sedating him just to set the bone. Mycroft had sat with him all night, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up, worrying all the while.

Mycroft wonders if that had been a lie and if Sherlock had really fallen down the stairs at all.

Instantly, he feels guilty for having thought such a thing, but now that his mind has strayed there, he can't dismiss the possibility. He can't stop thinking about all the other little injuries Sherlock incurred over the years. That time he shut his thumb in the door – that was an accident… right? And that time he came to home with a black eye – that was from a schoolyard fight, was it not?

Mycroft can't go into the room now. He stands paralyzed in the doorway, just watching, listening to the machines as they beep and breathe for Sherlock, keeping him alive even as he wants to die. He has never been a man particularly given to emotion, but Mycroft finds himself blinking back hot, pricking tears as he realizes that he can't lose Sherlock, not him too, not his wonderfully misunderstood brother.

At that moment, Mycroft vows to do whatever it takes to get Sherlock better. He promises himself and whispers it to the silence of the hospital room. He won't let him down ever again.

...

Mycroft is there when Sherlock wakes up. He watches his brother blink back into the waking world, looking around with his brow furrowed in confusion.

"_Why are you here?" _he rasps, his voice rough from disuse.

"_The police called me," _Myrcoft says softly.

Sherlock leans his head back against the pillow and sighs. "_They shouldn't have wasted your time. Don't you have someplace else to be?"_

Mycroft takes a deep breath and levels his gaze at his little brother. _"No. I don't."_

Sherlock looks at him, his face betraying surprise for merely a second before he slips his mask back into place. _"Pity. You should at least be somewhere you're actually wanted."_

Sherlock turns his face to the window then, proceeding to ignore him. Mycroft doesn't stay long after that, but promises to return within a day or two. Sherlock makes no move to show that he has either heard or acknowledged his words.

...

His daily visits continue on much in the same manner. Mycroft sits by Sherlock's bed, trying in vain to engage him in conversation while Sherlock remains silent, except when he feels the need to throw out a provoking comment. Mycroft endures his abuse for as long as his patience will hold out – which is about an hour, give or take – before rising and promising to return the following day.

Mycroft isn't sure how much more he can take. He's trying – finally trying – to be there for Sherlock, to help him pick up the pieces and get back on track. But he can only do so much. Sherlock has to be willing to help himself. And if he's not willing to even try, then Mycroft isn't sure he sees the point in continuing to try.

...

After a week in hospital, Mycroft gets Sherlock into the best rehab program in England, a reputable clinic known for their professionalism and privacy. Of course, Sherlock fights him every step of the way, insisting that he doesn't need anyone's help and that he'll be fine on his own. Mycroft ignores all of it and arranges for his people to escort him to the facility in the countryside. Sherlock rails and curses him, says he'll never talk to him again, never forgive him, never never never, but Mycroft remains steadfast.

He's guilty because he couldn't save Sherlock before, but he's going to try his damnedest to do better now.

...

The first time Mycroft visits him in rehab, Sherlock has already been there for nearly a month. Up until this point, he hasn't been allowed visitors – something about needing to earn the privilege first – and Mycroft feels the need to go. After all, Mummy still doesn't know about what happened and Sherlock has no friends – that he knows of – who would make the journey out to see him. So Mycroft clears his schedule, dismisses his assistant, and takes the train on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

When he arrives, he is shown to a common room. Sherlock waits for him at a table, arms folded in front of him, face drawn into a tight grimace. He looks positively miserable. His hair's grown out some, his messy dark curls nearly falling into his eyes, and his standard-issue clothes nearly swallow up his thin frame. He knows Sherlock must hate it here, but he does not regret the decision to send him here. Not for a moment.

Mycroft crosses the room, silently taking a seat across from him. Sherlock doesn't say a word, just continues to glare at him. Mycroft laces his fingers together and rests his elbows on the table. He has weathered enough of Sherlock's temper tantrums as a child to know that all he has to do is wait it out. If there's one thing they have in common, it's that they are both unbelievably stubborn.

They sit there for an interminable amount of time, the ticking clock the only sound in the room. Mycroft glances at their surroundings. It's stark and white (just as the rest of the facility, presumably), and Mycroft instantly knows why Sherlock hates it here. It's too calm. Too sterile. Too boring. There's nothing here to keep him interested. It must be absolute torture.

The minutes tick by, neither man wanting to be the first to break. But Mycroft is not a child. He knows he doesn't have all the time in the world, not anymore, and he makes the first move. They still haven't talked about that night and Mycroft can't forget it, can't move on until he knows the truth. He needs to hear the truth from Sherlock himself while he is not under the influence of drugs.

"_That night, when you called me… Do you remember any of that?"_

Sherlock looks at him steadily. "_Yes." _

"_Do you remember what you said to me?"_

"_I told you that father used to beat me."_

Mycroft is shaken by how calmly and evenly he can say those words. _"Is it true?"_

"_Yes."_

Mycroft can't breathe. It all makes sense now – the bruises, the fear of being left alone, the hatred of their father, the sweatshirts and the silence and the careful studying of people's behavior. It has been there all along – he saw it, saw all the signs and yet never understood.

He understands now. He wishes he didn't. Mycroft feels like he might be sick.

"_Does Mummy know?"_

Sherlock shakes his head. "_No. She can't know. She never knew and I can't tell her. It's better if she doesn't know."_

Mycroft nods, trying to take it all in. Their mother never knew, doesn't know. He is now the only one alive, besides Sherlock himself, who knows what happened. He feels guilt, overwhelming guilt that Sherlock had to carry this burden alone. All these years, since he was a _child,_ he's always borne this on his own.

In a sudden moment of clarity, Mycroft understands. Sherlock spends his life trying to keep his brain on overdrive – first with games and puzzles, then university and danger and drugs – in an effort to forget, to keep from living that hell over and over and over again. His mind is a vast palace filled with information (Mycroft remembers being told that once, over breakfast, when Sherlock was younger) and these memories of their father must make up the dark and shadowed dungeons. No wonder he's tried anything and everything to keep the demons at bay.

He cannot imagine such an existence.

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Don't be." _Sherlock is calm, but breaks his gaze for the first time, looking away, down at the floor. _"It's over now."_

Mycroft doesn't understand how detached he can be from this. For him, the information is all too new, the horror is all too fresh. He still cannot wrap his brain around the idea that their father – a man he loved and respected – would be so callous, even to his own son. It doesn't make sense, doesn't seem possible, but Sherlock wouldn't lie. Not about this. Not about something so, so important. Not about the one person who had any control over him. Not about something that made him so helpless, so weak, so ashamed. Sherlock prides himself on being in control at all times, at knowing all the right moves and all the right answers, and admitting that something or someone else held sway over him for so long is a serious matter.

"_It may be over, Sherlock," _he says carefully. _"But it will never be forgotten."_

Sherlock looks up at him then, his eyes wide and rimmed with tears. Mycroft hasn't seen his brother cry since they were children, and it shakes him. They don't speak, but as their eyes meet, they know that they have at least reached a common ground, an understanding of what happened and how they will move on. They will not speak about this again, Mycroft knows. They have never been the sort of brothers, of family, of people who do much talking. For them to talk about _feelings _or embrace would border on the inappropriate, but this moment is no less significant.

He knows now. Sherlock knows he knows. And he will carry the knowledge with him for the rest of his life. He will never forget. Couldn't even if he wanted to. But they can move on from here, try to put this behind them, make a fresh start.

Perhaps even begin to heal.

* * *

**A/N: I apologize about the HUGE gap in updating. Real life just took over and I had no time or creative energy for this. I hit a block, but appear now to be unstuck. Thank you for sticking with it and I hope you continue to enjoy!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**A/N: So, so sorry for not posting sooner. I know it was horrible of me to leave the story hanging for so long, but now it is completed... six months after I started it. Thank you to all of you who stuck with me (even when it looked like I had abandoned you). I hope you enjoyed!**

* * *

It takes a bit of doing, but Mycroft is able to figure something out. He always does.

Through extensive negotiations and promises and a promotion, Mycroft is able to keep the situation quiet and work out an arrangement that has the potential to keep Sherlock both clean and out of jail. As penance for his wrongs, he arranges for Sherlock to work as a consultant for Scotland Yard under the direct supervision of the very detective who arrested him, the now _Detective Inspector_ Gregory Lestrade. He will assist with as many cases as the DI sees fit, and will be called upon to help when cases become too much for Scotland Yard to handle.

Sherlock snorts at this.

Mycroft levels him with a gaze before continuing. He explains to his brother that he will not be paid for this position; rather, it will be a community service of sorts. Mycroft also informs him that until such time as he can find some other sort of paid employment, he will be glad to help him out, supplying him with a flat (since he _knows _that Sherlock will not consent to live with him, and Mycroft does not want that either, truthfully) as well as a modest allowance.

Sherlock glares at him, sneering that he does not need his big brother's charity.

Mycroft gently reminds him that, yes, in fact, he does.

It's a highly unorthodox situation, Mycroft agrees, but when it comes to Sherlock, an unorthodox solution was necessary. However, it is Mycroft's hope that both parties will benefit from this arrangement – Scotland Yard will be able to utilize Sherlock's mind and Sherlock will finally have the stimulation and puzzles he craves. His brother_ is_ brilliant. In spite of everything, Mycroft still believes that fact with all his heart. But now, he knows that there is no limit to what Sherlock will do to engage that brilliance, to keep his mind alert and active. His only goal is to stay one step ahead of Sherlock's boredom and if this is what he needs to do to keep him clean, then so be it.

He will not abandon him again.

Despite being in no place to do so, Sherlock pouts and refuses to accept the situation. He moans about being forced to working with the police, about how they are so regimented and rule-driven they are, about how they are despised him when he was only an analyst at St. Bart's, about how they will hate him so much more now and no doubt treat him even worse.

"_I was just arrested, you know."_

Mycroft assures him that anyone who steps out of line will have to answer directly to him.

Yet, even as Sherlock huffs and complains, Mycroft can tell that some small part of him is secretly intrigued by the idea. Sherlock has never been able to resist a good mystery and Mycroft has handed him an unlimited supply of them.

They reach a stalemate, in which neither of them is willing to back down, when Mycroft plays his trump card.

"_It's either this or jail," _he says simply._ "Your choice."_

Sherlock chooses Scotland Yard.

…

It isn't an easy transition. For any of them.

As expected, Sherlock does not play nice or even make an attempt to get along with his new colleagues. Lestrade does what he can to act as a buffer between his officers and his abrasive new charge, but he can only do so much. Mycroft knows the flack he is taking from his superiors simply because he agreed to this deal, so he offers and extra measure of patience when the Detective Inspector calls him to report on Sherlock's latest behavior.

_He wandered off on the crime scene unsupervised!_

_He insulted my best forensic officer!_

_He confiscated evidence and refuses to tell anyone what he's doing!_

Mycroft apologizes each and every time, offering more and more incentives for the DI to remain involved. If this arrangement falls through, he's not sure what else he will do. Miraculously, Lestrade demands nothing.

"_He may be a right prick," _the Detective Inspector says, "_But even in a week, I've already seen the good that he can do. He's worth the trouble."_

Mycroft can only hope that Sherlock as an asset continues to outweigh Sherlock the menace.

…

Though neither of them has ever been overtly fond of get-togethers, Mycroft makes an effort to stop by Sherlock's flat at least once a week, if only to check up on him. It's a small little space, a tiny studio in the heart of London, but it is all his own. Mycroft had been surprised when Sherlock had told him that he no longer required him to provide him with a flat, that he'd found a new place he could afford all on his own. He hadn't expected Sherlock to have acquired enough money so soon and he is half-worried about how Sherlock has been making this quick cash.

The worry causes an argument and, to Mycroft's surprise, he finds that Sherlock has earned the money by taking on odd jobs.

"_I started a website,"_ he says, bringing up a page on his laptop. _"A blog. The Science of Deduction. Started it on a whim, but it's gotten some notice. Apparently, people require assistance with the oddest of situations. Amazing what they'll pay to have lost things found… Or for you to prove that their spouse is cheating." _

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

…

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and months into years.

Though it has been half a decade since Sherlock was released from rehab, Mycroft still keeps a close eye on his brother. He doesn't visit as often as he should anymore, but he knows when he is not wanted. Sherlock has cobbled together a little life of his own – working with Scotland Yard and running his blog and just generally being Sherlock. It's good for him to have his own life – it's what he always wanted – and Mycroft is perfectly content to stay on the fringe, if that's what he wants.

As long as he stays clean, that is. It is an unspoken agreement between them – enforced on Mycroft's side – that if Sherlock starts using, there will be consequences. To Mycroft's considerable knowledge (which includes varying levels of surveillance), Sherlock has never completely slipped back into his old habits. There have been scares, as well as a suspected usage or two, but Mycroft has learned over the years what makes him especially vulnerable, and he knows what to look for in his brother's behavior. On the "danger nights" as Mycroft likes to call them, when Sherlock is tempted to use again, he makes sure Sherlock is not alone. He doesn't expect his brother to be perfect, but neither does he expect that he is strong enough to battle his demons on his own. Addiction is a dark and never-ending battle, one Mycroft won't allow Sherlock to lose, not while it is in his power to do so.

…

Nothing good can last forever, though.

As much progress as Sherlock as made, Mycroft can see that he is growing restless. He knows that his everyday routine is starting to bore him and a bored Sherlock is never a good thing. Yes, the cases are always fresh, but he is becoming better and better at solving them, and they are starting to lose some of their appeal. The detectives at Scotland Yard are less and less impressed with him and he grows tired of dealing with their fragile intellects and egos, as he puts it. It's gotten to the point where he flat-out refuses to work with some of Lestrade's men.

Yet for all his restlessness, Mycroft can see that Sherlock is trying. He plays his violin more. He throws himself into his cases at Scotland Yard. He works on his website incessantly. His latest project seems to involve tobacco ash, although to what end, Mycroft has no idea.

Despite all that, he can still tell that something is missing from Sherlock's life. Mycroft wishes he knew what it is he wants, that he could provide that for him, but the truth is that Sherlock is an adult now. He is more than capable of figuring out what he needs and obtaining it.

Mycroft can only hope that he finds what he is looking for before it's too late.

…

That something comes sooner than Mycroft anticipates.

He's not quite sure how to respond when he finds out that Sherlock has not only found a new flat – a spacious old thing on Baker Street in Central London – and but a new flatmate.

Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Army medical doctor recently returned to London after a tour in Afghanistan. No… _Invalided_ to London. The mystery deepens.

He wonders what Sherlock is up to. He never does anything without good reason. Yet Mycroft cannot fathom why he has picked a wounded soldier to be his companion. Sympathy isn't his brother's strong suit, nor is general goodwill. No, he's much too jaded for that, after all he's seen and done; they both are – far too damaged to be much good to anyone in the long run.

He wonders if this John Watson has any idea what he is in for. He wonders if Sherlock does either.

Mycroft makes it his business to find out. If there's one thing he's come to be good at, it's keeping an eye on his brother.


End file.
